As a child Debbie lived in the house that was demolished across the street from Joy Gerber on Stratford Court.

The Story Poles appeared overnight
taking over the yard
to redefine a space,
a coalition of insurgents
plotting an overthrow
of a house past its prime.
They mocked its rich history
and whispered in the wind,
Out with the old, in with the new.

In the front yard the old Sycamore
was defenseless against the disdain
broadcast by rigid PVC poles
lashed together
by a strong synthetic cord
of future modernization
with no room for trees
which occupy too much space.

The old house watched,
receded into backstory,
played a last reel
of family memories
as it tried to accept
a near future
of being redefined as scrap.

Perhaps some of its pieces
would find their way
into a found art project
or be re-purposed as a park bench
that might hold
other stories as people sat
and rested their hands
on its warm weathered wood.

Or perhaps it would settle
for giving momentary
comfort, a balm against
a cold night, as it shrinks
in the fireplace shadows
before being redefined
as coal dust.